No Matter the Cost
by High Suzerian
Summary: A world has fallen to the fires of heresy, its loyal citizens of the Imperium slaughtered for the amusement of blasphemous Gods. As the grinding gears of the Imperial Guard's war machine liberate the city of Vorgast, a squad of the 151st Talassarian Infantry is requisitioned by an agent of Emperor's holy Inquisition.
"Ortan and Darnos, go."

With a scuffle of booted feat and clank of bulky flak armour, the two troopers sprinted from cover, picking their way through the rubble strewn street to dive behind a large piece of masonry.

Drusus watched above them, his eyes hunting for a flicker of movement. Empty windows stared back.

"Sergeant..." said a voice at his back. He looked over his shoulder at Trius, the trooper's mouth obscured by his vox mic. "The envoy wants an update."

"Tell her the squad is proceeding as planned, no resistance as of yet."

The envoy. Unexpected and unwelcome, the hooded woman had requisitioned Drusus' squad, from her scarlet robes revealing her authority through the seal; a brass rune, a symbol of fear and utmost authority. She now owned them, they were her tools in which she would carry out the Emperor's will. Drusus should have felt honoured. But he had only felt a sense of unease bordering on dread when he had laid on that sigil.

He glanced behind him, back the street where they had come from. At the end, at the intersection, an old administratum building overlooked them. On the second floor, he could just make the barrel of his heavy bolter team's weapon. They better be ready to lay down the hurt.

He turned his gaze the opposite way, towards the area of the Vorgast still controlled by the enemy. Crouched like children behind the large piece of charred rubble, he could see Ortan and Darnos. Darnos clutched his grenade launcher to his chest.

"Dammit!" he cursed. What were they doing? Cover and advance tactics required constant vigilance, every group of soldiers covering the others as they advanced. The two troopers ahead were endangering the next pair to move forward.

Still, he couldn't risk calling out to them. They weren't the only ones in this city.

"Right, Corporal Targion and Trooper Markus, there is a doorway on the right side of the street, twenty metres up. Get over there now. And cover us!"

"Aye Sergeant." affirmed Targion as they darted across the pavement. Drusus scanned the buildings ahead. Nothing.

That left himself, Trius and the two troopers Platus and Gy stacked behind the corner. So far so good.

"Alright Trius lets go," he called, and without waiting for the vox mans acknowledgement he started off in a slow run down the street. He could hear the heavy vox caster equipment lashed to Trius' back rattle loudly in motion with its carrier's footfalls.

Drusus came into a crouch beside Ortan. "Throne damn you trooper you're supposed to be covering us!" he hissed.

"Sorry Sergeant," the boy replied, gingerly bringing his lasgun to shoulder.

Trius clattered down as Drusus reached over to Darnos. "You're my grenadier, trooper. I need you alert!"

"Yes Sergeant!" he nodded, and brought his heavy barrelled grenade launcher up. Troopers Platus and Gy had moved up to Targion's position. The Corporal had his lasgun up, scanning the street ahead. At least someone was doing their job.

They repeated the manoeuvre for another ten minutes, slowly advancing up the street, cover to cover. They had advanced about halfway up, a hundred metres by Drusus's guess. They had taken cover in a crater twice as wide as Drusus was tall, with a puddle of stinking sewage at the bottom. Drusus could feel the cold water seeping into his boots when Trius tapped him on the shoulder again.

"I'm sorry Sergeant, the envoy is really insisting to talk to you directly..."

Drusus sighed and reached out his hand. "Fine, give me the vox." Trius passed him the metal device wired to the vox caster on his back.

"This is Sergeant Drusus. You were asking for me?"

The reply was heavily distorted, the envoy's words indiscernible through the heavy crackle.

"Trius fix this reception would you, I can't hear frak."

He glanced over his squad's progress. The groups of guardsmen were clustered in various positions along the street. He signalled to halt the advance while he reported to his superior.

Trius had finished adjusting the frequency on the vox, and hand the speaker over to Drusus. His hand then exploded in blood.

Drusus heard the shot just before Trius started screaming. It was a low bark, an auto round.

Targion was the first to return fire, squeezing off bursts of lasfire down the street. The rest of the squad followed suit, not firing at any particular target, but to keep the enemy shooter's head down.

Drusus turned to Trius, who was cradling his ruined mess of a hand with two fingers had been blown off.

"Hold it still trooper!" shouted Drusus as he reached for his field dressing. He quickly tied it, and turned his attention back to the firefight.

The heavy bolter started to roar, laying down much-needed cover fire. About time. However, they still had no visual on any hostiles. He needed to root them out, wherever they were.

"Squad!" he shouted. "Advance, go go go!"

He drew himself over the craters lip and started sprinting down the street. The guardsmen rose with him. Hopefully the heavy bolter would keep the enemy pinned.

He dived as auto rounds started chewing up the street around him. There on the left! A muzzle flash lit up in an arched window two stories up, spitting bullets into the street. He snapped off two shots with his pistol. The rest of the squad poured fire at the window.

A heavy stubber opened up from the the other side of the street, throwing up dust around the guardsmen. Targion was bowled over by a heavy-calibre round to his shoulder, his flak armour deflecting it with a loud ting.

"Get down!" shouted Drusus. They were caught in a crossfire, and their light armour wouldn't save them for long.

From where he lay he looked around for a place to retreat.

"Squad!" he shouted over the noise of the gunfire. "Get to that hab, on the right!"

Without waiting for a reply he pushed himself to his feet and started running for the door. He fell hard as an auto round punched into his back, but his armour held. He scrambled on his hands and knees towards the door, hearing a scream as one of his men was hit. The heavy bolter was firing full auto, tracers whizzing over the guardsmen's heads as they ran to safety.

Drusus scanned the room they had entered with his pistol. Wrecked furniture littered the ground, and there was a hole in the ceiling.

"Who's hit?" he asked his men.

"Gy's dead sergeant," answered Ortan, his voice shaky.

"Or looks it," added Targion, glancing out onto the street. Trooper Gy lay motionless sprawled in the rubble, a red hole in his abdomen dripping blood.

"My leg, sergeant," grunted Platus. Sure enough, the guardsman's grey fatigues were soaked with blood.

The entrance and small window was still being raked with autofire, but at least they were safe from the heavy stubber, as it was located on the same side of the street as the room they now occupied.

"Frak, where's Trius?" asked Targion.

"In that crater back down the street," said Drusus through gritted teeth. "And we need him to call for reinforcements. Ortan, watch the hallway. Platus, dress your wound. Targion, Markus, lay down covering fire on that autogunner across the street. Darnos, when he's pinned, blow him away."

Targion and Markus knelt at the the door and window respectively, switching their lasguns to automatic fire. Lasers were spat across the street, scorching the plascrete around the arched window. Targion withdrew as Drusus took hs place at the door and aimed his grenade launcher. The weapon gave a 'thunk' as the frag grenade exited the barrel, exploding as it hit the window in a shower of rubble.

Drusus moved to the window. He could just see Trius in the crater, the antenna of his vox swaying. The heavy bolter and heavy stubber were still snapping off bursts at each other, otherwise the street was silent.

He put a hand on Dornas's shoulder. "I need you to put a grenade on that stubber."

Dornas nodded, and leaned out the door, at the same Drusus shouted out to the vox man.

"Trius!" he called. "Get over here, quickly!"

Trius scrambled out of the crater, hand bandaged, clutching his lasgun in the other just as Dornas pulled the trigger on his launcher.

Drusus heard the explosion just as he saw Trius go down in a rake of gunfire a few feet from the door, clouds blood spraying.

"Contacts front, across the street!" shouted Targion, opening up with his lasgun.

Sure enough, muzzle flashes and flashes of movement the windows on the first floor windows of the building across from them, bullets hammering into the wall of the hab.

"We need that vox!" shouted Drusus over the din.

"Aaaaarrrgh!" Dornas screamed and fell to his knees as a bullet sheared through his stomach.

Drusus cursed as he pulled the grenadier back into the room. Platus had finished bandaging his leg and was staring at Dornas in horror.

Drusus grabbed him by the straps of his and screamed in his ear, spraying him with spittle. "Get back on the line trooper!"

As Platus joined Targion and Markus at the windows, Drusus scooped up the fallen grenade launcher.

"For the Emperor!" he shouted as he shot the four remaining grenades across the street, the facade of the building crumbling as they detonated, filling the street with even more cracked rubble.

"Markus! Get the vox!" said Drusus as he pulled out his pistol and started shooting across the street.

Markus was dragging Trius' corpse through the doorway, leaving a slick trail of blood, and Drusus whispered a prayer to the Him that the vox was still intact.

Ortan, guarding the door at the stairwell, started shooting. "They're on the stairs!" he screamed as he fired.

The cultists must have flanked them. "Keep their heads down!" called back Drusus as he unstrapped the vox from Trius' corpse and started to configure a link to their platoon commander.

"Do you copy!" he called into the vox, clamping his free hand over his ear in an attempt to deafen the overwhelming noise. Bullets snapped and ricocheted, and each trooper was firing their lasguns as fast as they could pull the trigger.

"I hear you sergeant." The envoy's voice was calm, each word of High Gothic clearly enunciated in an accent Drusus was unfamiliar with. "I've been trying to reach you. What is your progress towards objective epsilon?"

"Heavy resistance encountered," answered Drusus. I've got two dead, including my vox man, and one wounded. Reinforcements requested-"

"Grenade!" shouted Ortan as he dived away from the stairwell door. Drusus fell to the ground as the frag exploded just outside the door sending shockwaves through the room. Dust cascaded from the ceiling, and through it Drusus saw a figure enter the room, illuminated by a bright blue glowing light from the gun he carried. Plasma.

The figure turned its pulsing weapon on Ortan, firing two shots. The first plasma bolt tore into the unfortunate guardsman, vaporising armour, flesh and bone, the second caused Ortan's chest to erupt in an incandescent shower of blazing innards. The Guardsman's scream died in his throat. Corpses don't scream for long.

Drusus shot the plasma gunner in the head before he could turn his weapon on the rest of them. The man crumpled without a sound as Drusus rose to his feet and charged the next cultist that was stepping through the doorway. He barrelled the traitor into a wall before he could bring the autogun he was clutching to bear, and pressed the barrel of his laspistol against the traitors chest point blank and pulled the trigger three times. He glared into the wretch's face, covered with a stitched together leather mask. The man opened his mouth in pain, exhaling breath with a nauseating smell as he started to slide down the wall.

With a clank of dull wood Drusus was clubbed to the ground from behind, the autogun butt rising and falling in frenzied rage. Drusus' nose burst as he shrank away from the brutal assault.

A lasgun fired. Twice, three times. There was a thud, and a squelch. Drusus looked up, blood dribbling down his chin, to see Targion with his bayonet in his hand, driving into the cultist who had been beating Drusus. The man was dead, whisps of steam lingering from where the lasbolts had hit him. Targion's blade made a sucking sound as it withdrew each time from the dead flesh.

"Corporal..." gasped Drusus, the blood from his ruined nose copper on his tongue. Targion stabbed again. His fatigues and armour were drenched in the same blood that coated his bayonet.

"Corporal..." Drusus took a breath. "Targion, he's dead!"

Thus time, Targion left the blade in the corpse. He looked at Drusus, his eyes staring. Slowly, he nodded his head. "Sorry, sergeant. Got a bit carried away there."

"No need to apologise for killing a traitor corporal," said Drusus, with a hint of a smile, before fading to his usual serious face. A leaders face.

"Now get back to the window and keep up the fire."

"Aye sergeant." Targion pulled his bayonet from the body with one last squelch and slunk over to the window.

"Markus," called Drusus. "Get over here and cover the stairwell!"

He didn't look at what was left of Ortan's corpse.

Picking up his dropped laspistol, he crawled back over to the vox. "This is Drusus," he said.

"Sergeant." Thought I'd lost you there."

"Negative. They tried to storm our position. I've another man dead. We are outnumbered-," -Drusus flinched as a bullet ricochet particularly close- "-outnumbered with inferior equipment. I am requesting reinforcements."

There was a pause, presumably as the woman contemplated if it was worth her time sending reinforcements, or perhaps just how to tell Drusus the bad news. The vox crackled. "Negative on reinforcements sergeant. Your mission remains the same, secure objective epsilon. Push through and eliminate resistance. Understood?"

Drusus paused, hearing only the snap of bullets and crack of lasbolts, the moans of Dornas clutching his gut and the shouts of Platus and Targion as they fired. He smelt blood, death, and charred meat.

He told himself he could never disobey a direct order. Even if it meant his life, or the lives of his men. The word of this woman were to be treated as from the Emperor's mouth himself. Insubordination, was heresy.

"Understood. The Emperor protects."

"The Emperor protects sergeant." The line went dead.

For a moment Drusus sat there by the vox, by Trius' corpse. Then he took a deep breath, and steeled himself for his duty as as a sergeant.

"Corporal!" he called to Targion. "You and Platus stay here and keep the bastards engaged. Markus." he turned to the trooper at the stairwell doorway. "Fix bayonets. We're going to take out that heavy stubber."

He changed his laspistol's powerpack, and started stepping over the bodies that littered the doorway. He glanced to see that Markus was ready, and started up the stairs. They were clear of bullet casings, as auto rounds were caseless, leaving only the lingering smell of cordite in the air.

"That stubber was on the second floor," whispered Markus.

"Then thats where we're going," answered Drusus.

They reached the first floor landing without incident, and started to move along the hallway. Most doors were smashed in, hanging broken from their hinges, or lying flat on the floor. The walls were coated in grime, and there was a stink of decay. They passed a body, mostly decomposed, empty eye sockets staring as the two guardsmen passed. Drusus turned a corner, pistol first.

"There." A hole was smashed through the wall, allowing access to the next hab block. They approached it warily. Aiming their weapons through, they saw nothing.

Drusus stepped through. He averted his eyes as he saw a debased symbol scrawled on the dirty wall. They passed another corpse, this one more fresh, and looked ritually mutilated. Silently, he prayed to Emperor to deliver him from this place. Moving down the corridor, they stopped still as they heard the muffled murmur of voices. It was coming from up ahead. The words were indiscernible.

Slowly, Drusus slipped his bayonet from his sheath. He found himself thinking why he was issued with such a weapon, when sergeants were not issued lasguns to fix them to. He dismissed the thought as they approached the end of the corridor, just as cultist stepped out of the room in front him. Drusus' eye's, the colour of Tallassar's oceans locked with the bloodshot iris's of his foe's.

It was Markus that reacted first, and the cultist fell with a well-placed shot to the forehead.

The two guardsmen stood, waiting for movement from the doorway.

An autopistol appeared around the doorframe and emptied its magazine, the cultist screaming as he blind-fired. The guardsmen crouched, firing back.

Then a grenade was thrown, bouncing off the wall and rolling down the hall towards them.

"Frak!" shouted Markus as he dived for cover, Drusus following suit.

There was thunderclap as the grenade went off, and all Drusus could hear was an ear-splitting ringing. He felt a shearing pain as shrapnel tore into his unprotected legs. In his throes of agony he glanced a cultist standing in the doorway, spraying the hallway with his autopistol. The wind was forced from Drusus lungs as a bullet hit his chest piece, preventing him from screaming when a bullet tore through his left foot.

Dazed, lying on his back with his ears still ringing, Drusus tried to get his bearings. Looking around, he saw the cultist who had shot him, his pistol now empty, charge Markus, who skewered the man with his bayonet. The cultist didn't die, and started to slash at Markus with a rusty knife.

The ringing was starting to fade, and Drusus could make out the growl of an engine. Confused, he staggered to his feet, keeping his weight on his uninjured foot, wincing as his the shrapnel wounds in flared with pain. They weren't deep, but they weren't comfortable, stinging as he moved. Another cultist with a snarling, tattooed face stepped through the door, clad in filthy red robes. But Drusus' eyes were drawn to the weapon the traitor carried in both hands, the source of the engine's growl.

Belching black smoke from its generator, the serrated teeth slowly rotating along its metre length, the chainsword implied only one thing; a brutal, bloody death. Originating as a primitive tool used to cut wood, chain blades had evolved into deadly weapons utilized by elite assault troops across the Imperium. How this cultist got hold of one did not enter Drusus' mind as the crazed man screamed and charged, revving his weapon and making the teeth spin rapidly as he ran down the hall.

Drusus had lost his pistol, but still held his bayonet, the normally decently sized blade now pathetic in comparison to the chainsword. As the cultist swung in a large arc, Drusus ducked away, all close-quarters training forgotten in a desperate effort to stay alive. The cultist swung again, the chainsword roaring, smashing through the wall beside Drusus with a cloud of dust and plascrete. Drusus stabbed as the cultist tried to free his weapon from the wall, his tattooed visage contorted with the effort of wielding the massive weapon. The bayonet sliced into his chest, but the cultist simply let go of his weapon and back handed the sergeant, and in his weakened state, Drusus fell to the floor with a clatter of armour.

As he hit the floor, Drusus saw that Markus was winning his own fight, and was busy slitting his opponent's throat with the cultist's own knife. The he felt a mighty wallop as the chainsword impacted his armour, scraping over it and slicing a deep wound in his left arm. Drusus could only lie there as another blow came down, this time the flat of the blade whacked down on his helmet.

Thinking the sergeant dead, or at least incapacitated, the cultist turned to Markus and shoved the chainsword through the guardsman's belly. Drusus, Markus and the cultist were drenched in hot blood as the teeth churned through Markus' insides. The maniacal laughing of the cultist and blood curdling, agonized screams of Markus almost matched the noise made the hungry blade itself, revving loudly as it churned through guts and flesh.

Drusus caught sight of his dropped laspistol. He groaned in pain as he reached for it. His fingers, slippy with blood, closed around its grip.

The cultist had rammed its blade all the way through Markus, the end jutting from his back. He was no longer screaming.

Drusus pointed the pistol , and pulled the trigger. He kept pulling it, until it didn't fire anymore.

He lay back and closed his eyes, listening to the silence.

It was Targion that found him amongst the carnage, bodies sprawled and drying blood coating the walls. Drusus groaned as the corporal shook him awake.

"Sergeant, hey, can you hear me? Its Targion."

Drusus propped himself up on his elbows, grimacing as his leg wounds flared.

"I'll see to those sergeant," said Targion, reaching for his field dressing. "Just lie still..."

"Where's Platus?" grunted Drusus.

"Back down below, with Dornas," said Targion, wrapping Drusus' legs in bandages. "These'll do for now, but you'll have to get to the medi station soon. Throne, Markus..." Targion looked over the troopers corpse, chainblade still wedged through his chest." No way to go for a brave guardsman. Now, your foot..."

Drusus gritted his teeth as Targion pulled his boot off, revealing a bloodied foot missing its two smallest toes.

"Ouch," Targion remarked.

"Just get dressing on it," said Drusus. His eyes widened as he remembered the reason Markus and himself had come here.

"Targion... The heavy stubber..."

Targion pulled the bandage tight and motioned at the room ahead where the cultists had assaulted from.

"All taken care of sergeant. I cleared it while you were napping, no one there, these three that you and Markus killed were the last. The stubber is at the window, out of ammo."

Targion turned to Markus, and removed the dead trooper's identity tags. He pressed thin metal discs into Drusus' hands.

"Lets not let him die for nothing, eh Sergeant?"

"Aye," said Drusus, reviewing the situation in his head. "Why are you here? I told you to keep the traitors across the street engaged!"

"We did sergeant," said Targion, slinging his lasgun and pulling Drusus to his feet. With one arm over the corporal's shoulder, Drusus started to walk back the way he had come. "We were trading shots, when they went quiet all of a sudden. Then they charged, five of them, pounding across the street towards us. Poor bastards almost made it."

"You shot them down?" asked Drusus, awkwardly clambering through the hole in the wall.

"The heavy bolter did. Emperor protect Trooper Lanius, he may be a foul-mouthed fisherman, but he's a crack shot when you need him!"

Drusus smiled. This wasn't the first time the squad's skin had been saved by Lanius' weapon, a fearsome Solar Pattern heavy bolter.

"Blew three of them to bits before they made it halfway. Caught another in the shin, blowing off his foot. Count yourself lucky sergeant."

Drusus grunted in agreement, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other as they made their way down the stairs.

"Me and Platus killed the last one. He was a big guy, took four lasbolts til he went down, and six more for him to stay there, he kept crawling forward. By the time I lined up a shot on his head, he was within reach of the door."

"Sounds like quiet an experience," said Drusus, as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "Friendlies, coming in!" he shouted.

"Good to here your voice sergeant!" answered Platus as Drusus and Targion stepped over the bodies in the doorway. The older trooper seemed at ease, and Drusus saw why as he stepped up to the window.

Five bodies were strewn across the street, most mangled plies of flesh and blood. They hadn't stood a chance.

"Any movement while Targion's been gone?" asked Drusus.

"None sergeant," answered Platus. "All quiet." After a second, he asked "Markus?"

"Dead." said Targion, taking out a lho stick from his pocket.

Platus left it at that. In the Guard, it was best not to dwell on such things.

Drusus surveyed his surroundings.

Dornas was still sitting by the wall, clutching his bandaged stomach. Targion was contently puffing away on his stick, glad to be relieving the pressure of the firefight. They all were.

Trius lay face down, his vox caster stripped from him. Ortan's charred remains gave off a sickly burnt smell. Gy, out in the street, laying where he had fallen. And Markus, upstairs, his body left to rot alone amongst those of his killers.

"Targion, Platus." Drusus hoped this would be the last order he would have to give for a while. "Get across the street, clear the building."

"Aye sergeant!" Targion stubbed out his stick on a wall, unslinging his lasgun and crept out the door, followed closely by Platus.

Drusus turned to Dornas. "Trooper, think you can walk?"

"I don't know sergeant..." Dornas's face was contorted with pain. "I can try..."

"Good man." Dornas needed to get to the aid station, but Drusus was loath to have a healthy squad member accompany him, reducing the squad further, and he couldn't take him with them to objective epsilon.

"You're going to have to make it to the medics yourself trooper. Think you can do that?"

"I'll try sergeant..."

"Here," Drusus helped Dornas to his feet, and slung his grenade launcher over his shoulder. If Dornas was found wandering back to base unarmed, a trigger-happy commissar would not look kindly on him. "Right, head back down the street, and tell Troopers Lanius and Ghoros to get up here."

"Yes sergeant..." wheezed Dornas, as they limped out the door.

They parted ways as Drusus walked past the torn up bodies of the cultists littering the street. Most were missing limbs. Heavy bolter rounds will do that to a man. He approached the building the ill-fated men had charged from.

The facade was blackened cratered with laser burns and grenade impacts. He looked in the window. Two more dead cultist lay still inside the room. He clambered in.

The seven dead men had faced him from this room not long ago. Had they felt the same panic, the same sense of hopelessness as he had just across the street? One of the dead men was slumped by the wall, his stomach bloated. Organ failure resulting from a lasbolt. But that would have taken hours to kill him. As if in explanation, the man had an open wound in his neck.

"He begged me not to do it, that one," noted Targion, entering the room, lasgun at ease. Drusus saw his fixed bayonet was red and wet.

"He was wounded, scared and helpless," said Drusus, regarding the corpse. "But he should he should have thought of that when he spat on his oaths to the Emperor," he added bitterly.

Platus entered the room. "We're all clear sergeant," he said.

"Anything upstairs?"

"Nothing alive."

The three guardsmen clambered back out the arched window to see Lanius and Ghoros, the squads heavy weapon team, lugging the heavy bolter up the street.

"Pardon me sergeant, but you look like shit!" called Lanius cheerily.

Drusus agreed. His nose was smashed, his left sleeve ragged and bloody, and a dozen other minor wounds oozed blood onto his uniform. He stood in the street, covered in the blood of his men and enemies.

"Fall in Lanius," he said. "You may have done fine work with that back-breaker, but don't let that get to your head. The commissariat does not look kindly on insubordination."

"Is this all that's left?" said Ghoros, looking around at the five of them before Lanius could reply.

Drusus nodded as he knelt to retrieve Gy'vs service tags.

"Frak..." said Lanius.

"What now?" asked Targion, taking out another lho stick.

"Well, you can go inside and get Trius' vox, we're gonna need it. Then we continue on to the Throne damned objective," said Drusus, slotting a power pack into his pistol. His last one.

"Aye sergeant!" Targion snapped a quick salute and entered the hab.

"Platus, relieve Ortan, Trius and Gy of their ammunition and grenades. Distribute them evenly. And get me their identity tags."

Platus saluted and began his onerous task.

"How long to objective epsilon sergeant?" said Ghoros, belts of bolter shells jingling around his neck.

"Too long," muttered Drusus.


End file.
